


Process of Elimination

by Shaitanah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/pseuds/Shaitanah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you ever seen a tiger hunt, Doctor Watson?” Two ordinary men coping with the Fall in their own ways. [post-Episode 2x03, “The Reichenbach Fall”. SPOILERS!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Process of Elimination

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and anyone who’s not me own this.  
> A/N: contains references to “The Adventure of the Empty House” by Arthur Conan Doyle. Once again, I planned crack, I got angst. And I wholeheartedly blame cristo-nara for being awesome.

John Watson has always been a patient man. The only people he has no patience for are the paparazzi. But he becomes yesterday’s news so quickly that the pool of dirt they have been trying to drown him in doesn’t rise past his shoulders.

 

It’s easy to spot someone tailing you when you are convinced you are of no interest to anybody. It’s not a reporter this time. Those stirred up anger and irritation. This one makes the hairs at the back of his neck rise in anticipation.

 

He wonders: _what if?.._

 

But no. Not his style. If he were alive, he would–. That’s what John wants to believe: he _would_.

 

He makes a phone call. Then makes another one.

 

“Yes?”

 

John doesn’t risk coming close to the windows. The unremitting eye of a sniper’s rifle is watching him from the roof of the opposite building. Has been for many nights.

 

“Do you want to shoot me?” John asks, point-blank.

 

“How–?”

 

“Mycroft,” he drops the name like it explains the lot. John still hates it that he’s had to ask Mycroft a favour, but he needs to talk to the person on the roof and this is safer than going up there. “Do you want to shoot me?” he repeats.

 

Silence speaks loud and clear. It says that the phrasing is wrong.

 

“Right,” John says. “Are you _going to_ shoot me?”

 

“Have you ever seen a tiger hunt, Doctor Watson?” the man on the other end of the line asks. His voice is youngish, sharp and mostly featureless. John cannot place an accent, cannot deduce anything about the speaker from that voice. “For such a magnificent beast, a tiger is sometimes ridiculously easy to lure in.”

 

John doesn’t know anything about that. He asks:

 

“Have you ever tried to lure in a dead tiger?”

 

This could be a long wait.

 

Silence indicative of a hung up phone is all that is there.

 

* * *

 

Ella doesn’t know how to make John talk. She offers to refer him to another specialist but he feels comfortable around her even if these sessions are fruitless. He is contented not to talk.

 

Every night he texts the stalker: _He’s not coming_ , and goes to bed, wondering what made him pick up the cheap dramatic antics of the Holmes brothers.

 

He doesn’t sleep well. He looks tired at job interviews. Sometimes he zones out and forgets to answer the HR specialist’s questions. He is still unemployed, which is no big surprise. He could call in a few old favours but doctors are taught to prioritize their patients’ needs, and John doubts that any patient could use an angry, insomniac doctor.

 

He picks up his phone and stares at the address book. The number he calls is not in it.

 

“Get out,” he says, wearily. “He’s not coming.”

 

“Then why are you still waiting?”

 

From now on this is a prelude to sleep. Every night: “He’s not coming.”

 

Every night: “You don’t believe that.”

 

“He’s not coming.”

 

“Who are you trying to convince?”

 

It always begins the same way, with John calling. It always ends the same way, with the stalker hanging up.

 

* * *

 

Harry starts drinking again. John moves in with her. It is Ella’s idea; taking care of someone else might help John take better care of himself. He starts thinking that she may be right. Except hiding alcohol from his sister reminds him of hiding cigarettes from Sherlock.

 

His phone rings. Blocked ID. He picks up when he can’t stand the ringtone anymore.

 

“I wish you hadn’t stopped blogging,” the familiar voice says without a preamble. “It was quite a read.”

 

“Have you got nothing better to do?” John snaps. “Wait a minute: are you here?”

 

“Of course.”

 

He’s either the most dedicated professional John has ever met, or the worst kind of lunatic there is.

 

“This is _ridiculous_. He’s not going to come to my sister’s house, for heaven’s sake!”

 

“Why not?” the man chuckles dryly. “I have.”

 

* * *

 

A week later Harry swears she’s going to be okay and begs him to move out. His leg hurts. He cannot make it up the stairs at the Baker Street flat, which means he will not be moving his belongings to his new flat yet again. Mrs Hudson sees him off with her usual warm smile. She’s the only one he can stand being around. She doesn’t ask questions. There are no more body parts in the fridge and she pretends to be fine with that.

 

“Are you bored yet?” John asks.

 

“I am a hunter, Doctor Watson,” the dry voice replies. “You are a kid tethered to a tree as bait. We are both waiting for our tiger, aren’t we?”

 

This man reminds him of Mycroft, with the underlying insane determination of Moriarty.

 

“Everybody says he was a fraud. You don’t believe that, do you?” He is talkative today. “What was he like? From the horse’s mouth.”

 

John should hang up, but sleep has already gone, utterly and completely, having never truly been there in the first place. He moves the curtains with a hooked rod, carefully, trying to discern any strange shape on the roof of the opposite block of flats. How long have they known each other? Was he one of the red flickering dots in the swimming pool?

 

John sighs. “Insufferable.”

 

Dry snort. “Tell me about it.” Pause. “No, really. Tell me about it.”

 

John is genuinely surprised. He freezes in front of the window, forgetting for a moment that it’s very easy to take him out like that.

 

“Why? I don’t even talk about it with my therapist. Why would I discuss it with you?”

 

He is not Mycroft. He will not make the same mistake. Even in the afterlife, one has to be cautious.

 

“Because I outrank you, Captain Watson.” A joke. Sounds like one. The sniper chuckles. Underneath all that somnolent complacency, madness has gnawed its way down to the core. “And because we come from the same dark place. We are both ordinary people who have lost their tickets to wonderland.”

 

John’s hand twitches around the phone. He finally remembers to move away from the window. He wanders off into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to keep himself occupied.

 

“You’re not waiting for Sherlock,” he speaks into the phone. The revelation is sudden and simple. “You’re waiting for Moriarty.”

 

The line goes dead. John pours himself a cup of tea, walks up to the window and toasts. He had never been in a position to take away somebody’s faith before.

 

 _January 19–20, 2012_


End file.
